


┑free┍

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Relationship, Kinktober, M/M, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Older Man/Younger Man, Panic Attacks, Trauma, Whumptober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:33:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27047275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Malcolm goes to see Dr. Whitly to say goodbye.Whumptober: Dirty Secret + Kinktober: Begging
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19
Collections: Whumptober 2020





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**Author's Note:**

> Whumptober + Kinktober = this experiment. I have a handful of different Kinktober prompt lists and the Whumptober prompt list, so I'm going to cross them over as much as I can. These prompts came from [Kinktober](https://jbbuckybarnes.tumblr.com/post/627189398153363456/kinktober-2020) and [Whumptober](https://whumptober2020.tumblr.com/post/628055505485561856/whumptober-2020-updated).

"We're different."

Malcolm doesn't bother giving a response. He’s heard every form of bullshit leave the man’s lips, seen every shape of manipulation and deceit. A change in tune only means scheming, only means harm coming his way in a new and improved package. All signs point don’t feed the beast.

"Something about where you're standing." Dr. Whitly paces back and forth near the red line. "So... distant."

As nice as it is not to hear the usual 'we're the same,' Malcolm's movements are being inspected under a microscope, clothes interrogated by Dr. Whitly's discerning eye. He fights not to squirm — it'll only make it worse.

"Spill, my boy. You always were shit at keeping a secret. Calling the cops and all." Dr. Whitly tut-tuts his head. His steps stop and he faces Malcolm head-on. "What is Lieutenant Arroyo up to these days?"

None of his damn business. “This is the last time I'm coming in," Malcolm levels, but the words come out far less sure than they had at home. In the mirror, in bed, at the wall...

Dr. Whitly shakes his head a little. "Seems I've heard that before."

"I'm making some changes for my health." Something Malcolm doesn't want to admit to the man, but appealing to him with medical facts is his best bet of escaping without a scene.

"Appear the same hypervigilant mouse to me."

Malcolm ducks his eyes, wonders just what about his posture, his mannerisms gives him away. Or perhaps that moment was enough of a tell to seal the deal. "I just came to say goodbye." He turns on his heel for the door.

"Could have done that over the phone, no?" digs into his back, claws to keep him in the room. The same thing Gil had suggested. Why hadn't he listened? Why can't he ever listen?

"Goodbye, Dr. Whitly," Malcolm stands firm, waits for Mr. David to come to the door.

"My manners. Congratulations are in order. Perhaps some celebratory tea with your partner? Lover? Whatever you kids are calling it these days. Tell dad that dirty, little secret.” Dr. Whitly exaggerates each of the last words as if that'll draw an answer out of him.

Malcolm stays quiet, big toes tapping in his shoes. _Stay calm. Leave. Stay calm. Leave._

"Who do you think taught you to profile?"

What does that jackass think he's doing taking credit for _anything_ good in his life? Malcolm's hand jitters, so he snakes it into his jacket sleeve. _His_ hard work, _his_ dedication, _his_ perseverance…

"Give your father some credit. I can smell the good Lieutenant's aftershave from here. Your choice in partners is _abysmal_ — you might have some issues, my dear boy."

"From you!" Malcolm wails, whipping around. "I can't sleep because of you. Can't eat. Can't spend a moment alone with my husband without thinking about _you_ trying to hurt him. I — "

"Husband?" Dr. Whitly bears his teeth, the playfulness gone from his exchange.

Shit. Malcolm should've called like Gil suggested. Should have tried to keep some distance between them so Dr. Whitly couldn't manipulate him. But the truth is the man can tug on his strings from anywhere, the very reason for the reinstituted separation. He's not okay, he's not okay, he's —

"Tell the bastard to rot in hell," Dr. Whitly growls.

Malcolm's going to drop in pieces right there, ripped to shreds by his father's anger. He's not okay, he's not okay, he's not okay. "We're done," he manages to get out, but it's lacking any of the firm finality he planned.

At a tug of his elbow, Malcolm turns to find Mr. David, the door, and that's all the reminder he needs to flee the building.

He's beyond the fence, breathing like he sprinted by the time he remembers to ask for help. "G—" He takes a breath and tries again, phone rattling in his hand. "Gil — "

"Kid, what is it?"

"Can you come get me?" His eyes dart back and forth across the street.

"Where?"

"I'm sorry." His frame folds in half and back again, stomach fighting his retreat.

"Where?"

"Claremont."

Malcolm wanders the street, putting some distance between him and the building. He ends up sitting on the sidewalk against a brick wall. Loosening his tie and undoing some buttons, he fights to take in more air, to breathe at a more normal pace.

"I couldn't find you," Gil says, crouching in front of him.

Lost time. When did Gil get there? "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have — "

"It's okay."

"It's done." Malcolm hugs his knees. "I wanna go home. Please take me home."

"Good." Gil holds out his hand, and Malcolm takes it, pulling himself to his feet. "Let's go."

Gil leads him to the car, and Malcolm gets in, trying to regroup. "He knows," Malcolm admits. The union he didn't want to share, not because it is secret but because it is theirs, something he doesn't want tainted by his father's hands.

"It's okay. That doesn't change anything." Gil starts driving them back toward Manhattan.

"It'll only make things worse."

"We'll deal with it if it comes."

Malcolm’s phone buzzes against the seat. “Gimme.” Gil holds his hand out and Malcolm complies. Gil presses and holds the power to shut it off. “We can get you a new number.”

Malcolm doesn’t really want one. At this point, he doesn’t suspect he has a choice in the matter, either. Not that Gil will force him to change it. Rather, Dr. Whitly’s actions will force it on him.

They make the trip in silence, Malcolm drifting, looking out the window, Gil resting a hand on his knee. Squeezing sometimes. Rubbing others. Malcolm doesn't look over.

When Gil pulls up outside the loft, Malcolm doesn't move. He can't bring himself to reach the door handle, to leave the vacuum of the two of them. Gil pulls forward and finds a parking spot up the street. "Take your time," he says, rubbing Malcolm's shoulder.

"It's like I killed him." Looking out the window, Malcolm spots traces of his father in everything from the typography on the restaurant sign to the cracks in the sidewalk. Spidery fissures reach for him — _Whitly, Whitly, Whitly_.

"You didn't. He's the one who made the mistakes, not you." Gil's tone is so sure, has so much confidence that slips through Malcolm's grasp.

"I've made plenty."

"This isn't one."

There's no desire to get out of the car. No pull to their loft. In his escape, Malcolm had focused on getting to a place he found safe, when perhaps all he needed was a person. _The_ person. "Maybe I didn't really want to go home."

"You're in charge — what do you want to do?"

"Drive?" Malcolm looks over at Gil, a question in his eyes.

"Like I'm ever gonna turn that down."

Malcolm stretches in the seat and closes his eyes, happy to go wherever Gil takes him.

They're _free_.

It's time they see what that means. Together.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
